It's been twelve years, and her porcelain is beginning to crack. All the edges frayed like an aging art class project, decaying paper mache and crinkling acrylic paint. She remembers the artistry of the old days. The days when her son was small enough to hold, too small to punch angsty holes in his bedroom door. The days when her husband spent equal time at work and at home (it was just so busy, he told her - always so busy) and when he wouldn't come home smelling like perfume. She remembers when the fog eased at night and lifted in the mornings, emotions clear to sail. She remembers when the car moved without grumbling, stopped without screaming into the dead night air of the empty neighborhood. She remembers when their house was a project, not a chore. She remembers when her eyes wouldn't flicker in mid-afternoon, alone on the couch, Oprah droning on above her. She remembers a life that could convince her to keep living, and a world that could keep her afloat.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Kendrick Lamar, Sing About Me, I'm Dying of Thirst
This is a good one, dude. Bravo. The repetition makes it psalm-like, a good counter to the bleakness of the picture, and a good analogy for whatever engine is keeping this heroine going.
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